


The Howling Wind

by Solea



Series: Wind Verse [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - fandom
Genre: Angst, Angst and Humor, Bisexual Character, Bisexuality, Case Fic, Comfort/Angst, Crime Scenes, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Epic Bromance, Epic Friendship, Epic Love, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, Love, Love Triangles, Male Friendship, Male Slash, Male-Female Friendship, Murder, Mystery, OT3, Other, Requited Love, Romantic Friendship, Slash, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-08
Updated: 2014-04-16
Packaged: 2018-01-18 16:45:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1435591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Solea/pseuds/Solea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the continuation of the The East Wind Blows. </p><p>Moran has been defeated, but the cost was steep. Mycroft sacrificed John's daughter and it's up to Sherlock to find her and all three of them to save her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sherlock is sleeping, stretched out over the table, his disheveled head resting on one outflung arm and his other hand resting on the keyboard of his MI6 laptop next to three half full cups of cold coffee when John enters the kitchen early in the morning, Shirley in his arms.

He moves around the kitchen quietly, removing Shirley’s breakfast from the fridge and quietly stepping out of the kitchen into the foyer and making his way up to 221b.

Months ago, he would have woken Sherlock and tried to convince him to kip on the couch. Months ago, Sherlock might have complied. But as the month after month passed with little or no progress towards their goal, Sherlock had devolved to existing in either one of two states: comatose as a corpse or a frenetic ball of focus and fury. It was better to leave him resting in any position.

John steps into their old flat- now entirely Sherlock's- and picks his way through piles of hard copy, maps, foreign newspapers and other detritus to the kitchen, which was miraculously clean. He grimaces as he opens the microwave and puts Shirley’s bottle in it to warm up. She peers over his shoulder at the mess in the rest of the flat.

The spotless kitchen, devoid of test tubes or any other scientific paraphernalia is a testament to the total absence of everything in Sherlock’s life other than his tireless quest to locate Miyah, John’s daughter who had been traded by Mycroft to an unknown party, ensuring London’s protection.

John’s heart aches as he holds his other daughter, Miyah’s twin, to his cheek, relishing the small movements she makes against him that indicate her interest in her surroundings.

Every day, she seems to take herculean cognitive leaps forward. She had started speaking two weeks ago, properly speaking. 

John shuts his eyes as he hands her bottle to her and basks momentarily in the pleasant memory.

He’d been at the clinic and Mary had been helping Sherlock translate likely transmissions in Russian. His phone had beeped and he’d opened the video file and watched his daughter gabbling at Sherlock about her bumblebee book.

“Bumblebees in the sky!” she’d crowed, shaking the little book in her fist. Mary knew what was important, and she angled the camera phone up to capture Sherlock’s response.

A rare, beautiful, open smile had broken across his face as he’d regarded Shirley toddling towards him, book upheld.

“It is aerodynamically impossible for bumblebees to fly,” Sherlock had stated, the rumble of his voice poorly transferred through the phone’s tinny speaker.

“Flying!” Shirley had insisted, making it to his knee and hitting him with the book to prove her point.  Sherlock’s long fingers carded gently through her curls and he nodded seriously.

“Indeed they are.”

John’s heart hammers as he remembers the tenderness of that moment. The brief flashes of affection and love that Sherlock had begun allow himself had all but ceased as everything about him was slowly sublimated into a singular purpose, a drive that John had never seen him exhibit for any case. It was yet another small tragedy to add to the rest.

John presses his eyes shut as his as his thoughts turn inevitably to Miyah, and he wonders what kinds of strides she has been making during her absence. Would he hear her first sentence? Would he see her first steps or walk her to school on her first day? Would he ever see her again alive or even know if she was dead? 

 _Miyah, Miyah where are you my sweet? My little doctor, my gentle darling, where?_  The familiar litany brings with it the familiar ache in his chest and behind his eyes, the familiar squeeze on his lungs and weakness in his joints.  He knuckles down his reactions and presses his eyes shut against tears. It would not do to reveal his unhappiness to Shirley who often looks around confused and seeking, but never asking the question or says the name that would break him into little pieces.

He hears steps on the stair, light and quick. Mary.  She enters the flat, picking the same path through the mess that he had and smiling at the tableau he and Shirley present her.

 “Mary Mary Mary Mary,” Shirley chants, dropping her bottle and reaching for her mother.

“How about ‘Mama? Or Mum?” Mary giggles as she hoists her daughter up into her arms and swings her around the kitchen. Shirley howls with laughter, clutching at her mother’s hair.

John smiles, suspecting that Mary is privately delighted at Shirley’s propensity to call her by her given name instead of the typical honorific. He watches her dancing her child around the kitchen with a subdued sense of awe. Of all of them, Mary is the one who puts on the best act.

Only John and Sherlock know her well enough to see that her smiles never reach her eyes, freezing solid at her cheekbones. 

John alone, though, knows the sound of her broken sobs, sees effects of devastating panic attacks that wash over her unexpectedly. 

She refuses to burden Sherlock with these moods, even if John is absent, feeling that it is far more important for Sherlock to focus on locating their daughter than dealing with her frantic mother.

Once it had been Mrs. Hudson who came to Mary’s rescue when she heard unstable steps on her stair. She had opened the door to her flat to find Mary standing there, eyes staring and unseeing, gasping for breath, Shirley clutched in her arms. Mrs. Hudson had only just managed lift Shirley out of her shaking grasp when Mary fell to her hands and knees and was sick all over the foyer floor.

Mrs. Hudson had deposited Shirley on the living room floor and returned to kneel next to Mary, oblivious to the mess and held her until she quit heaving. They’d cleaned up and had a cuppa and a few herbal soothers all in silence. What had there to say?

“Clinic today love?” Mary asks lightly as John retrieves his daughter’s discarded bottle as well as his handle on reality.

“Yeah,” he says, rising and wrapping his arms around his wife, bracketing their daughter between them. “I love you,” he murmurs into her hair. She tilts her head and her lips brush lightly over the stubble on his cheek. She loves the soft scratch and rubs her cheek against his.

“I love you too,” she whispers. 

John tightens his arms around her shoulders fractionally and sighs, longing for the day when these moments would no longer be charged with such a loaded mix of emotions, when joy could exist unalloyed by grief and worry.

“Soon, love,” Mary says, her thoughts aligning with his. “It will happen.”

He nods, squeezes her shoulders and kisses her forehead before parting, stiff upper lip firmly in place.

“Should shower and get ready. Text me if anything happens,” he says. It’s a little ritual, this. Today could be the day. The breakthrough. The revelation. Any day.

“He’s still out cold. Thought it best to leave him,” she says uncertainly as he heads to the stairs. He nods at her, affirming that she’d made the right decision and descends as quietly as possible. 

John walks past the kitchen table on the way to the loo and notices that Sherlock’s eyes are open though he hasn’t moved from his previous position by so much as a hair. John pauses.

He’s seen Sherlock move straight from sleep into his mind palace before, but it’s eerie every time. His eyes are unfocused, staring at nothing. But for the slight expansion and contraction of his chest as he breaths deeply, John would swear he was dead. Swallowing convulsively, John continues on his way, unwilling to interrupt whatever journey Sherlock’s undertaking in that brain of his.

John realizes, as he turns on the taps, he’ll have to insist on putting Sherlock under for more than a few hours. He stops mid-shampoo, realizing that it’s been almost a week since Sherlock has actually slept in an actual bed.  Guilt flashes ugly in his heart. He’s been slipping, letting Sherlock wear himself out too much. He scrubs away at his head angrily. 

They both know that Sherlock works better when he sleeps in an actual bed occasionally, even if Sherlock himself would never openly admit it. John continues his shower swiftly, sure that that argument will persuade Sherlock to take the sedatives he’s been prescribed and get a decent night’s sleep tonight.

By the time John is out of the shower and dressed, Sherlock is sitting up typing furiously, the red lines of sleep scars just beginning to fade on his cheek. John observes him for a moment, guilt stabbing again as he notes Sherlock’s darkened eyes and stubble-shadowed jaw.

Instead of nagging, he pours a cup of coffee from the large carafe they bought specifically for this reason. He places it next to Sherlock’s hand and turns away, knowing better than to wait for a response. Better to have the sleep conversation closer to when it’ll actually be useful. Even sleeping pills won’t put Sherlock under so soon after a nap.

John almost makes it to the door when a hoarse, wordless exclamation and the sounds of shattering china spin him around just in time to see Sherlock leap backwards from the laptop, upsetting his chair.

His eyes are riveted on whatever horror he sees on the monitor as he presses back against the countertop behind him, and John strongly suspects he would crawl backwards up onto it to except that he is shaking so hard he can’t manage.

John’s lunch falls from nerveless fingers and he presses the back of his hand hard against his mouth to stifle his own terrified reaction. Sherlock’s eyes suddenly widen even further and he lunges back to the table, violently kicking the upturned chair out of his way. He slams fingers against keys and stares fixedly at the monitor before suddenly falling back against the counter again, leaning on it heavily to keep his feet.

“John, _John_ ,” he moans and presses his eyes shut, shutting out everything. Somehow John is moving towards him, legs leaden, hot lead pounding through his veins as he rounded the corner of the table and forces his eyes to the monitor.

He saw a slightly grainy picture of a face, magnified to focus on the top left corner of a small set of pink lips. 

“No mole,” Sherlock groans, sagging further against the counter, his head nodding forward. He giggles hysterically. “ _No mole._ ” He repeats, and John feels Sherlock’s hand clutching his shoulder.

John can’t understand the significance of what he’s seeing or what Sherlock is saying, and the frozen hot waves of dread continue to roil in his stomach. He reaches a shaking hand forward and zooms the picture out. 

A little girl with delicate, impish features, curly blond hair and staring blue eyes lays framed by a metal examination table. She is clearly very dead.  She looks so much like Miyah that John stops breathing. Sherlock tightens his grip on the back of John’s shoulder.

“No mole, John. Above her lip. It’s not her, it’s not her.”

John stares at the girl, uncomprehending.

“Not her,” he says, blankly. 

John starts shaking hard. Sherlock pulls on his shoulder, forcing him to turn away from the painful image. He doesn’t let up on his grip but ducks his head, trying to catch John’s staring gaze. 

“It’s not Miyah. Miyah’s alive, John. I’m sorry--they look very similar,” he finishes, hating how his voice shakes. 

“Oh my God, Sherlock,” John murmurs in a broken, quiet voice. “Oh my God,” he repeats, covering his face with his hands, digging the heels of his palms against his eyes, trying to dam the tears behind them, trying to blot out the image of the little girl who looks so much like his own. His shoulders shake as he chokes back a sob. 

The problem of shaking, weeping John has one solution, and Sherlock has been learning that the solution is an elegant one and will likely prove mutually beneficial. 

He steps forward and wraps his long arms around John’s shoulders, pulling him close. 

John doesn’t return the embrace. He can’t seem to pull his hands from his face, but he rests his forehead against Sherlock’s sternum and drags deep breath after deep breath, trying to calm his racing pulse. The little girl’s face swims behind his eyes. Not Miyah, but someone’s. 

Someone’s little girl, perfect and dead.

“John?” Mary’s voice on the stairs, her steps in the foyer, swift and light. 

“It’s ok, Mary,” Sherlock says, forestalling panic as she enters the flat. “It’s fine. A mistake. My mistake.”

John feels Sherlock’s voice vibrate through his chest and lets the words sink into his mind, savouring the sensation and the meaning, letting it penetrate the frigid coils that wrap his heart and lungs as Sherlock’s arms tighten around his shoulders. 

“No!” Sherlock commands, quickly meeting Mary’s wide-eyed gaze as she makes for them. 

He cocks his eyebrow pointedly at Shirley glances meaningfully at the monitor. Mary stops, not understanding everything, but understanding enough. She consoles herself by snuggling Shirley closer to her. 

John blinks, scrubs his eyes and slowly disengages from Sherlock who obligingly loosens his arms, allowing John space but refusing to let go completely. He keeps an arm around John’s shoulder for his own sake as he leans against the table, minimizing the browser and its ghastly contents. 

“S’okay,” John says. He looks up at Sherlock. “You alright?” Sherlock nods curtly, his arm still thrown over John’s shoulder. His eyes flicker to the monitor and when he raises them to John’s there’s something there... an intensity not borne of panic. 

“Found something?” John asks, hardly daring to hope. Sherlock nods slowly. 

“I came to the wrong conclusion, but the clues that led me there are valid,” Sherlock says quietly, his eyebrows drawing together. He squeezes John’s shoulder once before relinquishing his grasp and stooping to right the chair.  “Don’t go to the clinic today,” he says and resumes his seat.


	2. Scent on the Wind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock finds a lead at last.

John has perfected the art of waiting after long years in the military and his comparatively short time with Sherlock. He sips his tea with the energetic patience of a claymore mine.  

Mary watches him wait for Sherlock’s inevitable recitation and wishes she had learned the trick. Patience would have been a helpful virtue all those during all those years of waiting for a clear line of shot. She has learned to school her reactions, but the river flows tumultuous under the surface ice. So she paces, sips, sits, rises, paces, washes up dishes, and paces again.

Sherlock is unaware of either of them as he wraps up line after line of investigation zipping from one laptop another to hardcopy and back again like a bumblebee surrounded by a surfeit of dripping, ripe blossoms.

This is the point in his deductive process that he lives for - watching piece after piece of the puzzle click snugly into place. This is when adrenaline should burn gorgeous though his veins, more thrilling and cathartic then the best cocaine on the market. This is the glory before the denouement, when the picture becomes clear to him and the beautiful, shining truth is his secret, hoarded for a few precious moments before he enlightens everyone else. He focuses inward as he works, looking for the first glimmer of excitement, charged and incandescent.

But now, as the last keystroke falls and the big picture coalesces, his breath turns to ash in his lungs. His veins fill with ice and his heart pumps molten lead as face after young, perfect face joins the tragic group populating his spreadsheet. He sighs, bereft, falling to his chair, scrubbing his face with his hands. The only glimmer of light, the only frisson of excitement comes when the faces stop appearing, and the only one that really matters remains absent.

“We’re going to the Ukraine, to Kiev,” he says dully, spinning the laptop around to face John and Mary, looking down so he did not have to observe their reactions to the horrific images of the group of young victims.

“I ran a correlative search for the girl I found this morning through MI6’s image recognition software. These girls were all killed within days of each other, approximately three months ago in the Ukraine. MI6 thinks they’re collateral damage from a human trafficking ring.”

“Human trafficking? As in sexual slavery?” Mary chokes out.  She feels John’s hand, warm on hers, and it does precisely nothing to stem the tide of panic that threatens. Sherlock looks up, his hands twitching toward her across the table.

“It is highly unlikely that these girls or Miyah were involved in that end of the business, Mary. It is notoriously hard to find individuals willing to purchase healthy Caucasian children to be used for illegal purposes for fear of retribution should the children be tracked down. Years of practice at hiding his emotions make it possible for Sherlock to sound exactly as though this subject in this context does not make his stomach heave in disgust.

“It is far more likely that these girls were meant to be sold to illegal adoption brokers.”

“So why are _they_ dead?” John asks. _How do you know Miyah isn’t?_ echoes, unsaid.  Sherlock shakes his head sharply, his jaw tightening.

“I don’t know. The Ukrainian ‘ _authorities_ ’ such as they are, are not yet treating these murders as linked, despite the close similarity of the features of the victims, the similar wounds and the positioning of the bodies at the scenes. Apparently some political nonsense has destabilized the government and these incidents are being given even less attention than usual.” 

John nods slowly, and Mary grimaces slightly.

“Breaking the ring will be a long and difficult process, but it is the absolute best lead I have found in a year. Moriarty had a Ukrainian base and a Moran must have had contacts there. The shoeprints in the carpet at Mycroft’s also corroborate...Stilettos have to be truly culturally ubiquitous if someone wears them to collect a kidnapped child.”

Mary frowns suddenly, then jerks her head up, her eyes wide. 

“The Woman,” she says. Sherlock inhales sharply, and his grin is like a shot of good whisky, quickly gone but leaving a lingering residue of warmth.

“Yes. She may have connections... or know someone who does. I will contact her.”

“Can you contact her?” Mary asks. “I thought Mycroft said-“

“ _Mycroft_ ,” Sherlock bites out, his tone reeking of dislike and disdain. His brother is dismissed with an impatient gesture. Mary shrugs.   

“Sherlock, how sure are you that we’re on the right track?” John’s question is tentative, almost apologetic.

Sherlock frowns, quickly probing his memories for any precedent involving John seriously questioning his judgment and comes up with exactly none. 

“Why doubt me now John?” Sherlock asks, his voice low and intense. 

“No, Sherlock, that’s not it.” John says swiftly, leaning toward him, his eyes wide and earnest. “No one but you could have found this… this pattern in the world…You narrowed down the world to a country and a city. It’s nothing short of a fucking _miracle_. Of course I trust you. It’s only…” 

John holds Sherlock’s gaze, his left hand flexing, fingers curling and unfurling in his most obvious tell, the recurrence of the psychosomatic tremor that appears, Sherlock knows, when he feels helpless. 

Sherlock rubs his his his fingers over his lips, desperately wanting to reassure his friend, to tell him that he’s certain. In this case, however, only the truth will do. 

“I am eighty percent sure that my conclusions are correct,” he says slowly, eschewing John’s one-to-ten scale as an inefficient means of measuring his certainty. 

John nods woodenly, pressing his eyes shut, trying hard not to let on just how bad that sounds. 

Sherlock finds this reaction almost physically painful. He understands perfectly, feels his failure acutely. A whole bloody _year_ and all he can offer is and eighty percent likelihood that they’re even on the right track. The remaining twenty percent chance that he’s wrong, or that there is no answer to be found, is terrifying to the point that he deletes the possibility completely. 

Besides, though it pains him to admit it, there are more to his deductions than the facts. Sherlock pushes himself up away from the table with a growl of frustration, pacing between kitchen and parlor as he mentally gropes for a way to qualify his answer, to make it a better one without stooping so low as to claim the insubstantial, the unsupportable. He finds none.  He turns to face them, frowning. 

“The actual facts may not corroborate it, John, but I know we’re on the right track,” he says, hating to admit that he would trust anything so vague as intuition. “I have…I have a _hunch_.” 

John stares at him for a moment then, impossibly, he smiles.  “That must have been hard for you, mate,” he says wryly and Mary snorts in agreement. Sherlock scowls. 

“It’s ridiculous that you continue to find hunches more comforting than supportable proof,” he growls. “Still, there you have it. Ukraine.”

“I’ll arrange things with…” Mary is cut off as Sherlock slams his hands against the table in sudden rage, furiously satisfied as Mary recoils. 

“I’m perfectly capable of handling the travel and political arrangements and Mycroft _myself_ ,” he snarls. He whirls away from them, pulse pounding in his ears, realizing something is very wrong-- wrong with him, wrong with his reaction. But he can’t _think_. All the anger and frustration borne of months of fruitless searching boils up and geysers forth in flow of barely intelligible invective.  Sherlock fists his hands in his hair and stands shaking, heaving, desperately trying to cap his surging emotions. 

“Sherlock,” John says from behind him. His voice, that familiar voice, rough with worry and so very tired, succeeds in doing what Sherlock can’t manage for himself. His hands slide from his hair to cover his face and he feels the tears, hot and hated, stain his cheeks. 

“I’m sorry,” he groans, digging his fingertips into his forehead. John’s hands on his shoulders propel him to the sofa, press him down firmly and he sits heavily, elbows on knees and head in hands. The tears keep running, and his breath hitches as waves of shame break on rocks of frustration. 

John sits on the coffee table knee to Sherlock’s knee, and leans towards him until their heads almost touch. 

“Talk,” John orders, and Sherlock shudders and suddenly he can’t stem the tide of words. 

“Eighty percent, John, and a hunch. That’s all I have, and if I’m wrong, if she’s not there, there is nothing left. I can’t _make_ clues, I can only observe the world, and there is _nothing_ …nothing concrete, nothing… hardly anything at all. A few crumbs and some hope. Mary once said 'solve it because it matters.' What could _possibly_ matter more than this, and I still _can’t see_.” There is silence. 

“What…if we find her and…” Sherlock whispers, unable to finish his thought, unable to meet John’s eyes. 

“Then we will know,” Mary says from beside him. Her voice is cold and detached, but her hand is warm on his back as she strokes the long, bent line of his spine. “At least we’ll have that. Which is more than many have when faced with similar situations. But I don’t think so. Like you, I have a hunch that we will not be too late.”

John nods, his forehead brushing against the wild curls tangling Sherlock’s overgrown fringe. “Besides. I mean. Eighty percent and a hunch from Sherlock Holmes is better than everyone else’s hundred percent.” he says, placing a hand on Sherlock’s knee and meeting Mary’s eyes. They are dark with worry, and not just about Miyah. They’ve been negligent, and Sherlock’s worked himself to the point of a breakdown. Mary’s jaw firms, and she kneads Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Sherlock, look at me,” she says, and he sighs, exasperated.

“I apologize for snapping, but I’m fine now,” he mutters, covering his face with his hands again.

“No I need you to look at me,” she insists. “look at _us_.” Sherlock brings his eyes up with an exasperated sigh, scrubbing his face with this hands to remove the last signs of the impossible tears.

“No matter what happens, no matter what we find, this is not _your_ fault and we will love you. Remember that,” Mary says, stating facts undeniable.  

Sherlock stares for a moment then blinks and nods mutely, his hands falling from his face into a twitching puddle of fingers in his lap. 

John relaxes slightly, having half expected an argument about the assignation of blame, worse, the other thing. Trust Mary to know just what to say.

“Now, listen,” she continues, “I _am_ going to deal with Mycroft, not because you are incapable, but because if you work yourself into a psychotic break, you’ll leave us floundering around in Kiev and I don’t fancy that.

“You will allow John to put you to bed down here, where he can make sure you stay in bed and you will take his pills and quiet that beautiful brain of yours enough to get at least eight hours. And when you wake up, we will go and find our daughter,” Mary finishes, excitement catching the back of her voice.

“Will I indeed?” Sherlock asks, trying valiantly for sarcasm.

“You will, my friend,” John answers, grasping his knee. “Either voluntarily or by force.”

“Fine,” Sherlock scowls at John’s proffered hand, but accepts his help in rising unsteadily to his feet. A wave of dizziness sweeps over him, and he admits, grudgingly and very privately, that he does need the sleep as he stumbles towards their bedroom.

He flops into their bed and waves off the bottle of sleeping pills John holds out to him.

“Those are intolerable. They leave me unfocused and confused for no fewer than three hours after waking. We can’t afford that at the moment. It’s likely I’ll fall asleep on my own in the next few minutes,” Sherlock says, burrowing under the light yellow duvet.

John puts them on the nightstand and lowers himself onto the other side of the bed.

“I’ll just stay here, shall I, and make sure that you do,” he says, smiling at Sherlock’s sour-faced response.

“I’m not a _child_ , John,” Sherlock mutters, thrashing around under the covers, trying to finding a comfortable position on an unfamiliar mattress. John regards his friend noting the hooded, glassy eyes and mussed, shaggy hair and privately disagrees.

Vulnerability, unmasked by utter exhaustion and the emotional upheavals of the past few hours, softens Sherlock’s features, rolling back time and making him appear unbelievably younger.

John feels an incongruous surge of protectiveness for the man who has never needed protection from anything but himself. He reaches out and cards his fingers through Sherlock’s curls, and the man quiets, settling.

“No, you’re not a child, but you’re not well at the moment, and I’m a sodding doctor, or have you forgotten?” John snarks back, stroking his fingers through Sherlock’s hair again and Sherlock’s eyes flutter shut.

John  strives for stillness and succeeds, but his heart hammers in his chest so hard he wonders Sherlock can’t hear it. Today was the day. He closes his own eyes as Sherlock’s features relax into sleep and allows reunion scenarios flash across his mind’s eye.

He wonders whether Miyah will recognize them, whether she’ll be happy or scared when he swoops her up into his arms.  He imagines Shirley’s reaction at being reunited with her sister. They’re so young, it’s impossible to predict their reactions. He tries, though and doesn’t notice as he’s pulled under into sleep himself.

 

 


	3. Interlude

Mycroft startles slightly as his desk phone rings. It rarely rings. He looks at the number on the display and finds it blocked. Interesting. He picks up the receiver and cushions against his shoulder, fishing for his cell phone under piles of paperwork.

“Mycroft Holmes speaking.”

“We need to be in Kiev tomorrow evening at the latest,” Mary’s voice snaps over the line with no preamble. 

He steeples his fingers in front of his lips, leaning back into the seat. Almost a year without hearing it, and he recognizes her instantly.

“Tell me what he’s found, and I’ll make sure you have what help you need,” he says, sternly knuckling down the frisson of anxiety that tightens the skin at the back of his neck.

“Human trafficking ring based out of the Ukraine. Several similar-looking children are dead, and it’s the best lead we’ve had in a year. They all look like her, Mycroft. She might be there too, just so you know. Dead on a slab somewhere far from home.”

He pauses, fighting again with resurgent emotion, this time relief. _Not dead yet_. When he’s mastered himself sufficiently, he continues.

“She may also be fine, sold into an adoption scheme. More likely given her race and background.”

“I don’t need your assurances, Mycroft! Tell me what you can do for me, so I can sort out what you can’t, and quickly.”

“You’ll be operating well outside Sherlock’s normal sphere of influence.  You’ll need Interpol to help wrangle local authorities. I will make sure you have a cooperative agent meet you when you touch down in Kiev,” he pauses, skipping off two texts in rapid succession.

“A plane will be waiting for you at Heathrow. Text Anthea when you leave the flat. She’ll meet you there and get you through security.” Another pause, another text.

“Funds sufficient to cover any...unforeseen needs will be deposited into your joint account with John.”

“Good. Have Anthea bring the list of arms I’m about to text to you.”

“Should more clout be needed, do not hesitate to call me. How fares my brother by the way?” he asks before he realizes the words are out of his mouth.

“Worked himself to collapse,” she growls at him. Mycroft scowls, his hand tightening over the phone.

“I expected more from you two.” He can’t keep the darkness out of his voice.

“Fuck you with a _knife_ , Mycroft Holmes,” Mary snarls, then adds “Say hello to Mummy,” and rings off. He flinches, _hating_ himself for it and lays the phone on its cradle with unnecessary gentleness.

His parents have refused to speak with him after Sherlock revealed to them what he had done. Mary knows, which means that Sherlock is aware of this circumstance as well. All those years of his insufferable inferiority complex and when it came down to it, they had sided with him in the end.

Mycroft wonders absently whether that affords his little brother any satisfaction and immediately decides it does not. Parental approval has never been a high priority for either of them.  

He sighs, long years of practice allowing him to push aside one pressing matter for another now that he has exhausted his usefulness for the time being, refusing, as usual to allow sentiment to cloud his judgement.

However, when Anthea enters hours later with a two low balls of the whiskey he prefers and an uncharacteristically sympathetic expression on her face, he does not turn her away. She seats herself in the chair across from his desk and pulls out her phone and they sit in silence, sipping away until the whiskey is gone and the dull ache he rarely notices anymore recedes once again into the background.


	4. Windbreak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Calm before the storm in which multiple types of preparation take place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John and Mary erotica present in this chapter

Mary pauses in the doorway of their room, taking in the tableau of slumber before her. The last rays of the setting sun outline their forms, curled in sleep.  John’s on top of the covers… he hadn’t meant to fall asleep. His head is pillowed on his arm, hand stretched out as if his fingers have just stroked through Sherlock’s curls. She wants nothing more than to curl up and sleep in the narrow space between them.

Three-minute conversations have no business being that emotionally draining. As the months had passed, she had begun to regret her initial forbearance where Mycroft was concerned. Other than granting Sherlock unfettered access to whatever he needed to research, and generally staying out of their way,  the man had been useless.

Then again, who else could he have assigned that would have been more useful than his brother? No one, she decides, taking advantage of this rare opportunity to see the man in question relaxed in sleep. _No one_ else could have found this lead.

Sherlock looks young when he sleeps. John appears relaxed, but his gentle features do not de-age in slumber the same way that Sherlock’s do. She wonders absently what sort of lines Sherlock will acquire as the years pass and feels a shaft of happiness that she’ll be around to witness the transformation. She shakes her head at such whimsy. Shirley’s down now, and transportation’s taken care of, but there’s a lot to do before they can leave.

Quietly, she pads over to John and strokes her fingers gently down his jaw from ear to chin and he smiles in his sleep, and it utterly warms her heart. Another stroke, and he shifts, turning towards the contact and sighing. She holds her finger to her lips as his eyes drift open, and he stays silent through his moments of post-nap orientation. He slowly slides from the bed, and they make their way out of the door, both looking over their shoulder as Mary pulls it shut to ensure that Sherlock continues to sleep uninterrupted.

“Wow. Three hours,” John mutters as he slouches over and fills the kettle for tea. “I didn’t even mean to fall asleep.”

“Yeah, you were tired too, love.” Mary says, moving some of the detritus of Sherlock’s research on the table out of the way and sitting down. John turns towards her, noticing several bags have been packed and are lined up in front of the door. “I talked to Mycroft,” she says in a colorless voice. “There’ll be a plane waiting for us tomorrow evening, and an Interpol agent waiting for us in Kiev.”

John nods, his countenance darkening.

“I don’t know that I could be civil enough to have that conversation with him at the moment,” he mutters, his mind on the faces of the little girls in Sherlock’s file.  She nods, and he recognizes her expression. Maybe civility hadn’t played too much a part after all. _Good_.

“John, what are we going to do with Shirley?” Mary asks. John shakes his head, having wondered that off and on himself. “Would Molly…”

“Yes, but that’s not …She should be protected. In case.” In case of what, John couldn't say. With Moran out of the picture, there was no obvious threat to their daughter, but he couldn't see leaving her with Molly.

Mary nods miserably.  “We can't bring her with us... what happens if we need to be involved? What happens if all of us need to be involved, I mean. We can’t expose her to...to that. It’s bad enough that Miyah…” Mary cuts herself off, clamping down hard to keep from crying.

John stands beside her, pulling her against his side, cradling her head against his hip and carding his fingers through her hair.

“What we need is someone good with kids who is also good with a gun…” he mutters sourly. How many au pair agencies could fill that request…

The thought occurs to them almost simultaneously, and they stare at eachother.

“Do you think he would?” Mary asks breathlessly.

“I’m sure of it. It’s more a matter of if he can get away. He’s got responsibilities too.”

“Call him. Guilt him. Whatever it takes, John. He’s the right person for this, and he could help in other ways as well.”

John already has his phone out.

~~~

Greg Lestrade stares incredulously at the number flashing on his phone for a moment before apologetically excusing himself from the table he’s sharing with his date and answering it.

“John! How are you?” he says, wandering out into the crowded lobby of the restaurant.

“In need, Greg. I am in need.”

Greg scowls at the tone in John’s voice, hurrying to the exit and the relative quiet of the London evening outside.

“This is to do with Miyah,” he says quickly, knowing John would have already cut to the chase if Sherlock needed bailed out of prison or something similar.

“You’re not as thick as he says you are,” John says and Greg hears the smile in his voice.

““Yeah, well, who is? Whatever you need, mate, just tell me.” There’s a sound like a groan.

“Don’t be so quick to promise. It’s a big ask.”

“Well? Don’t keep me hanging.”

“I need _you_ actually. Got any vacation coming up?”

“Christ...some. How long?”

“Dunno. Sorry.”

“Where am I going?”

“Nowhere...It’s not like that. We um. Greg, we need a babysitter.”

“You what?”

“For Shirley. While we go to look for Miyah. You have kids, and you...you could protect her if anyone came after her.”

“Is anyone after her?”

“...Not that we know of. It’s just...We’ll pay you--”

“No, you bloody well will _not_ John Watson. Whatever I can do to help, I already told you. This just isn’t... exactly what I expected. When d’you need me?”

“We’re leaving for Kiev tomorrow evening”

“...The Ukraine? Christ...You don’t think that… I mean there’s a lot of…”

“Yeah. We do think that actually.”

“Fuck, John, you gotta _find_ her.”

“I know, Greg. We-- We will. Listen, we’ll see you here at 5 PM yeah?”

“‘Course. Might need to call in some reinforcements.”

“Whatever you need. However you want to do this, here or at your place, whatever. I trust your judgement.”

“Thanks John. See ya soon.”

Greg pockets his phone, and slowly returns from his table. He’s still digesting everything when he sits. After a minute of silence, his date coughs politely.

“Something from work?”

“Oh! No, sorry. Just an odd request from a good friend. You remember a year ago in the papers, there was a girl who was kidnapped?”

“Yeah, I read John Watson’s blog!” she says, and her eyes light up. He sighs to himself. He’d been trying to have that effect all night. “That was him? Amazing. They didn’t ever find her?” she asks, leaning in.

“Not sure how much else I should say…” he hedges, hoping devoutly he hadn’t said too much already.

“Sherlock sounds bloody brilliant from the blog,” she enthuses, and it’s all Greg can do not to roll his eyes. “Is it really wonderful being able to work with him? Is he really that smart? Does he wear that hat really?”

“In order, no, yes, and only when John makes him,” he answers shortly, and his budding premonitions for the rest of this date come horribly true.

“You have to have some stories about Sherlock! You have to tell me all about him!”

Greg smiles tightly and orders a double scotch on the rocks as the waiter passes by and tries to decide whether he wants to see this woman again. He decides he can live without it.

“Sherlock stories huh? I have just the one...So, this one time, I walked into the morgue, yeah? And there was this bloke, and Molly, she’s a pathologist, had already vivisected him for the autopsy. You know how that goes, guts in bins all over the place and blood and bits-- He’d been shot up a bunch and had fallen from a rooftop, so his shin had splintered, and the bones were sticking out.

“Anyway, that expression you’re making right there? That’s what any sane person would do. But Molly’d called Sherlock because she’s a bit mad too. He had an interesting deformity in his liver.  Sherlock loves to look at that kind of thing. In the name of science right? So he comes swanning in-- no other word for it-- throws that coat over a chair, rolls up his sleeves and before you can even say ‘ _Gloves, Sherlock_!’ he’s elbow deep in this guy, rummaging around, ranting about-- Hey, where you off to then?”

Lestrade waits for a few minutes for her to come back from the loo, then pays the shot and deletes a contact from his phone before walking back out into the night. He catches a cab back to what passes for his flat after his divorce to sleep and pack. He’ll stay at Baker Street. Even after all this time, it seems more like home than the shithole he’s rented to see him through till something better comes along.

~~~

“Greg’ll do it. Said something about reinforcements. Dunno what he means, but I’m sure he’ll have it under control. He’ll keep her safe,” John mutters, hating the necessity of leaving his daughter behind, vulnerable.

Mary nods, scowling slightly. “What else needs doing? You have to let Sarah know you’ll be away and Sherlock has to get packed…”

“I texted Sarah earlier. The temp I’ve been training will fill in for me. I’ll pack Sherlock's stuff. He should sleep himself out, and we should catch a few winks ourselves and be off as early as we can tomorrow,” John says on his way out the door, and Mary can easily hear the eagerness in his voice. She can relate. The clenching, cold iron weight in her chest had eased as soon as Sherlock had pointed out a direction. They were moving now, and it is only through action that she realizes how much inaction had eaten away at her.

After John leaves she goes and unlocks the cupboard in the hallway and pulls several cases and a bag from the shelves. She puts newspaper down over the kitchen table before unpacking every gun they have in the house. She looks them over.

Then she begins what, for her, is a quite cathartic process of breaking down the weapons and cleaning them. The rich, actinic aroma of cordite and oil unlocks a door rarely opened in recent years, and she relishes the onslaught of adrenaline that inevitably accompanies this ritual, tied so closely to imminent action.

She removes the compensator, and pops the slide off a Walther p22 and allows herself to accept the fact that, though the reasons are despicable beyond measure, the idea of being back in the field using the skills she had learned so well, and in which she takes such pride, is extremely exciting, and that that’s ok. There are a few moments of gleeful consideration regarding the things she will do to anyone who has touched her daughter as she pokes a brush and cloth through the bore, oiling and cleaning repeatedly. She imagines the look on John’s face as he scoops up his daughter for the first time in over a year as she polishes the seating of the slide and the mag well with solvent and a thin coat of oil before reinserting the guide rod and spring and attaching the slide. There’s a satisfying metallic snick as everything clicks into place, and she smiles as she reattaches the compensator and moves on to the suppressor that goes with the gun.

Half way through the next piece, a Sig Sauer like John’s, she realizes she’s humming a tune under her breath and smiles gently to herself. One after another, the weapons are handled, checked thoroughly, cleaned, polished, oiled, and reassembled. It’s not until she snaps the magazine back in her Glock 21 that she realizes that John’s standing in the doorway watching her intently. She takes in his eyes, dark and hooded and the tension singing through his frame and feels a rush of desire. He stalks to the table and places a case in front of her and pulls a chair up close beside her, crowding into her space, his body heating the air around her

“Would you mind?” he asks, his voice husky. She shakes her head and opens the case, removing his service weapon and feeling the comfortable weight of it in her hand. She runs her thumb over a gouge in the grip, brushes her fingers over the scrape in the metal on the side of the slide, fingering the patina of war before quickly breaking it down.

It is, as she expected, perfectly clean and totally in order. She reassembles it slowly, wondering how many times this gun saved his life and remembering with terrifying clarity the two times it almost took it. She lays the weapon carefully back in the case, fitting it snugly in the foam depressions and is unsurprised when John's hand, warm and calloused, covers hers.

He presses her fingertips, blackened by oil and grime, to his lips and inhales sharply, looping his other arm around her back, tugging her to him. She slides from her seat into his lap, straddling his hips, pulling her hand from his grasp and buries her hands in his hair, tilting his head back and crushing her lips to his.

His moan is more of a growl, and his hands clamp around her waist and hitch her roughly against him. She shoves her tongue into the cleft of his lips and rocks against his erection as he opens his mouth to her. His groan vibrates into her mouth as she digs her nails into his scalp and presses her breasts hard against his chest, bucking hard enough against his hips that the chair moves, grating harshly across the floor.

He lifts her then, rising from the seat, and she wraps her legs around his waist as he takes them the few steps to the sofa where he falls on top of her and ruts hard against her leg as she tears at the buckle of his belt and the buttons at his fly. Her sweatpants are far easier to remove, and he lifts himself enough to slide them and her knickers to her knees before pressing himself against her and plunging two fingers into her, covering her moan with his hungry, demanding mouth. His thumb flicks over her clit, and she bucks into him again, grunting in frustration as buttons refuse to release. He releases her mouth kneels over her, removing wet fingers to take care of his trousers himself. Mary arches under him kicking her sweatpants the rest of the way off, hungry for contact. John watches her for a moment, relishing the soft play of the subtle muscles of her belly as her tee shirt rucks up before sliding his hands down her thighs and pressing himself against her body.

Her teeth drag over his throat before sinking into the flesh above the pulse point on his neck, and he bucks against her. She spreads her legs, tucking her knees up against his hips, and the hot wet velvet friction as he breaches her transmutes the pain of her bite into dark, intense pleasure. They do not take their time, exploring each other as is their habit. Mary wraps her legs around the back of John’s thighs and bites down harder dragging her nails down his back as he digs his into her neck and shoulder, and he arches down against her pistoning his hips with such force that they both move incrementally up the couch, millimeters for every thrust.

She gasps, throwing her head back and tilting her hips up, granting him deeper access, and he slams into her again and again, clinging to her taut body, licking and biting hungrily at her exposed throat, reveling in the raw, nerve-abrading pleasure coursing through him as she squeezes her thighs around his hips silently urging faster and harder and he struggles to comply.

Somewhere in the back of their minds, they’re mindful of the other bodies asleep in the house, and the only sound in the room is the slap of his flesh against hers. Her eyes fly open and she arches again, biting the back of one hand, and he cups her ass, yanking her up against his hips as her muscles convulse around him and he thrusts once, twice more before following her, unable to keep his gasp silent in the midst of release so intense it runs along the knife’s edge of pain.

He holds himself above Mary for a moment, his arms bracketing her shoulders before she reaches up and pulls him down. He shifts, resting his elbows on either side of her head, keeping the full weight of his body from crushing down on her while still covering as much of her sweat slick skin with his as he can. He bends his head down and rests his forehead against hers, the puff of her exhalations sweet against his cheek. She slips fingers under his shirt and runs them languidly, gently now, along the column of his spine, down over his ass and back up again, smiling as she feels the trail of gooseflesh left behind. He shivers and huffs out a quiet laugh.

“My love. My dark, sweet, dangerous love,” he murmurs, and she smiles and kisses him lightly over bruised lips, cocking an eyebrow at the growing bruise on his shoulder.

“I’m afraid I got you a bit there, darling,” she breathes, and he chuckles against her, burrowing fingers into her sweat damp hair and kissing a tender line across her brow.

“I love it when you mark me,” he whispers, and she hums against him.

“We should have dangerous gun-cleaning sex all the time,” she says, laying her palm against the small of his back and squeezing before nudging his hips with her knees until he shifts and settles more comfortably between her legs.

“Any chance we can just fall asleep here?” John mutters, feeling suddenly heavy and slow.

“Heh, what would Sherlock think if he woke and found us like this, bare-assed and sex-addled?”

“You know?” John says, after a minute of serious thought, “I have absolutely no idea.”

“There is that…still, we should move so we can get some proper sleep. Care for a shower, love?” she asks, starting to wiggle out from underneath him. He puts up a token resistance before getting up and helping her to her feet.

After their shower, they slide quietly and gently into their bed next to Sherlock. Mary hadn’t wanted to for fear of waking him, but it was either there or the couch because 221B was out of baby monitor range, and waking Shirley now would mean no sleep for anyone in the near future. John the soldier drifts off almost immediately, but Mary lingers in twilight consciousness for some time, listening to the soft breathing of the men slumbering on either side of her, wondering if it will be awkward for Sherlock to awaken to more than one body in his bed.  He’d fallen asleep with his head on her lap on their couch once or twice...surely this wouldn’t be much different. It’s not as if they’re naked after all. Still, it could be strange for him after...well who knows how long. Ever?

She feels a pang of sympathy for anyone who does not know the wonderful feeling of awakening to someone else’s heartbeat in their ear. She rolls closer to John, giving Sherlock a bit more space, partially to make him feel more comfortable and partially to indulge in heartbeat listening herself, now that she thought of it. The steady, sure rhythm of John Watson at rest finally quiets her and she drifts off into a deep, deep sleep.

~~~

Sherlock struggled back to consciousness amidst dreams of dead children; quite the most horrible nightmare he’s experienced in memory. Sherlock uses dreams. Typically he knows he’s having them and can remember them--or parts of them--that matter. Quite often he’s solved a case or part of a case from what his subconscious has shown him.

Other times, such as now, he’s powerless in the grip of sleep, confronted with the horrors his mind hasn’t been able to process while awake. His body convulses and his eyes shoot open as his hand is arrested mid-flail.

Mary’s face swims in the darkness in front of him, and he’s abruptly aware of the two other bodies warming the bed. Her eyes are wide in surprise, but her expression, or as much of it as he can see in the darkness, is sympathetic, and her hand clasping his gentles, and she rubs a thumb over his palm.

He opens his mouth to speak, but she shakes her head, holding a finger to her lips. John is sleeping. He moves to rise but she shakes her head, holding out her hand, a silent command. For a moment he wars between pride and need.

Whether because of the residual horror of the dream or the fact that, despite it his body is lapped in such comfort that moving is abhorrent, or whether it’s because he’s privately been longing for this since the first time he roused from a nap with his head on her thigh and her fingers in his hair, Sherlock succumbs uncharacteristically to need and curls into her arms with a deep sigh of surrender.

Mary gathers Sherlock to her, tucking his head under her chin, stroking her fingers into his hair, and heaves a contented sigh of her own as John adjusts to her position, throwing a leg over her hip and an arm over her shoulder. His hand comes to rest on Sherlock’s bicep. Though he would have sworn he’d never find sleep again, his body has different ideas after prolonged stressful wakefulness and before he knows it he’s pulled under into deep, dreamless oblivion.

 

 


End file.
